


fever thaw

by ariohsix



Series: everything to win [2]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: First Crush, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sibling Bonding, Sickfic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-01-11 09:23:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariohsix/pseuds/ariohsix
Summary: After returning to Moominvalley early for the first time ever, all a very emotionally confused Snufkin wants to do is mind his own business. Little My, of course, has other ideas.





	fever thaw

**Author's Note:**

> Snufkin spends a lot of time in his own head to start this series off (as you can probably tell from Part 1), so here's some quick notes to offer some insight on the ongoing story!
> 
> 1) I've been watching both the 90's anime and the 2019 series, and I've just begun Comet in Moominland, so that's about the range of my familiarity with canon, but I'll keep getting better and better! 
> 
> 2) Snufkin knows about his parentage and siblings!
> 
> 3) Full names and "nicknames" will be used for pretty much all members of the Moominfamily, and sometimes their names in other languages will be brought up/used because I just personally headcanon everyone to be aware of the other ways to say their names. It's fun!
> 
> 4) Yes, there is an ongoing story here! This takes place at the end of the winter season begun in "for keeps"! I promise it won't all be similes and amateur prose forever! We just have to get through the winter and get this boy some friends to talk to. :') 
> 
> So anyway, thanks for reading and waiting so patiently for this next entry! Enjoy!

_The door of longing opens and the memories of you are coming after me_

_Again and again, the corners of my eyes go red_

_Now, what can I do?_

\---

When Snufkin first steps out of the woods, the valley is silent. The familiar old bridge creaks under his weight as he crosses, and he kicks a few errant shards of ice off its surface and into the grass. The snow still collects in patches on the hillside, draining slowly into the river where the last of the perch swim up to nip at the slush.

The meager morning sunlight that peeks through the clouds is more gray than honeyed yellow, and the heavy scent of water hangs in the air. Strange. He wasn’t expecting rain. There is no laughter to greet him either, but at least that he _was_ expecting.

For the first time, Snufkin has returned to Moominvalley early.

Every step he takes closer to Moominhouse feels in equal parts like a relief and a mistake. He doesn’t know what he expects to find there. Actually, he does –– a quiet house isn’t hard to imagine. However, a strange sensation deep in his chest reminds him that the quiet isn’t what he returned for. If he’s truly being honest with himself, he doesn’t have the slightest idea what _is._

Snufkin treads the familiar path up the hill and turns onto the porch. The railing where he and Moomintroll like to sit sometimes is dusted with slow-melting snow whiter than the daisies that would dot the hillside in just a few days time. For a moment, Snufkin entertains the thought of brushing it away, taking a seat, and playing his mouth-organ as if with it he could trick everyone into believing spring had come early. The idea is funny to him and makes him smile. It’s the first thing to do so in what feels like a long while.

But that isn’t what he needs either, the strange sensation insists with a twist of his stomach, and he is forced to agree. Spring did not need to come with him –– for some reason, Snufkin felt like being early and now he is, and if he did not take this time to find out why he risked the same thing happening next year. The possibility alone is enough to send his head into a terrible spin that his stomach matches with earnest. His smile dissolves.

Snufkin thinks miserably, as many of his thoughts have been recently:  _Three days before spring comes to Moominvalley and within the first half hour, I’ve gone and made myself sick worrying over nothing._ It _had_ to be nothing — he certainly didn’t feel any better being here than he did in the wilds. And that made it nothing. He feels rather sure that if he tells himself so enough times, it will start to feel true. Any second now.

He wants to lie down right there on the porch, but stops himself despite no one being around to see him do so. He leans against the wall instead, dropping his rucksack onto the toe of his boot to muffle the thud of it hitting the floor. The indulgent thought of stepping inside the house enters his mind as he stares idly at the frost covering the windows, and he thinks of poking around the kitchen and scraping together a meager imitation of one of Moominmamma’s famous autumn soups.

His stomach twists again in a different direction, the one he expects it to when he hasn’t eaten in...what was it now, two days? A low grumble from under his tunic confirms as much and he sighs, frustrated with himself.

“This was a rotten idea,” he whispers aloud, careful not to let his voice carry no matter how much he felt like screaming. (He wanted to very much, though.) His scarf gathers around his neck, and he draws the yellow knitwear up and around his face. He slides down the wall until he’s seated on the porch and shuts his eyes, as if it will make the sight of the winter-speckled valley disappear.

Why hadn’t he just waited? He could have spent another two nights in the nice cave he’d found a few islands away. It had been warm there, and interesting creatures came by to drink and hunt in a nearby brook that hosted a rainbow of gleaming fish. He’d entertained the passing creeps with songs from his mouth organ and was thanked with new ones that he memorized with care — there were more than a few that just a handful of midnights ago he’d been dreaming of sharing with Moomintroll on the first day of spring.

And when he heard them, just as Snufkin dreamt, Moomintroll would settle his head in his paws and his ears would tilt towards the song the way they did whenever he played. And then, when Snufkin was halfway through, he would try humming along and get every note wrong just to make him laugh until the songs wheezed clumsily out of his instrument. Snufkin would pretend to give up then, but they both knew he couldn’t stop for long, and he would catch his breath and start over because he knows that’s what Moomintroll really wanted him to do.

Yes, he reasons that that’s precisely how things would have gone. But there is still a chance of something else happening entirely, because that’s simply the way of things when one has expectations. And that Moomintroll, he was oh so full of questions and feelings that could never be predicted, only prepared for. A spring together requires just as much planning on Snufkin’s part as a winter alone.

So Snufkin had to consider that Moomintroll might sigh into the music of his encore (though he would pretend not to) and Snufkin would notice regardless because that’s what very best friends do. And when he noticed he would ask if anything was wrong, because that is also what very best friends do. And when he asked, Moomintroll would twirl the tuft of his tail in his paws sheepishly and admit how feverishly he wished he could follow Snufkin out of the valley and into the world sometime.

And Snufkin imagines that when he says this carefully, Snufkin’s heart would race strangely (the way it’s doing now) and his thoughts would scramble (the way they’re doing now) and his tongue would dry out and crumble all the words he would need to explain that Moomintroll already follows him wherever he goes.

With a groan, Snufkin slumps onto his side until he’s lying in front of the Moominhouse front door. The wood is cool against his face, which has gotten very warm all of a sudden. He wrestles his scarf around and bundles the long ends under his head for some comfort. He may not like to be busy, but he misses the noise it would make. An aimless wish for someone to talk to passes through his head. He wonders if nightfall will offer him a new moon to twirl under and make it to.

“I suppose I could talk to myself,” he says, doing just that. He’s not sure he knows what to say to convince himself to feel better, or perhaps turn back and return a few days later. Snufkin sighs and resigns himself to a mid-morning nap, pulling his hat over his eyes. With any luck, by the time he wakes the strange sensation will have decided to go bother someone else’s stomach and he’ll feel like his old self again.

The silence of the sleeping valley feels eerie and lifeless. Snufkin fishes his mouth organ from his pocket to keep the instrument from jabbing into his side. He considers playing again just to fill the air. He settles for drumming his fingers against the well-worn planks of the porch. The sound bounces off the roof and down the stairs before rolling off the hills and into the distance. When Snufkin huffs, dissatisfied, he can see his breath. It’s too quiet.

“Where do those too-talky creeps of the forest go when you need them?” he wonders aloud, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“Snufkin?” A familiar voice questions as if on cue, sleepier and far quieter than he’s ever heard it before. Snufkin yanks up the brim of his hat with none of his typical nonchalance and finds Little My leaning out of an open window, the dark curtains Moominmamma favors in the winter billowing around her tiny frame.

A second of silence passes where all Snufkin can do is blink owlishly at the unexpected interruption. He gets the feeling he should be embarrassed, but he can’t for the life of him decide which part of his current situation is worth the emotion. He buries the instinct and clears his throat before speaking.

“Hullo.”

“ _Hej_ ,” Little My answers as she rubs at her eyes, her voice thick with drowsiness. Flicking the crust of sleep away, she looks around from her place in the window, surveying the quiet scenery like a sentry. Her brow furrows as she looks back at him, as if she’s unsure that he’s really there. He doesn’t blame her — if anything, he feels the same.

”Spring sure looks cold this year.”

Snufkin takes a deep breath in an effort to tamp down the irritation prickling at his chest — of _course_ Little My had to be awake. He couldn’t think of anyone else in the valley more suited to look at the elephant in the room and dangle a mouse in its face. He coughs, and the short sound disappears in a puff of frosty breath.

“It’s not spring, Little My,” he responds, tilting his hat back down to hide most of his expression. Surely there’s no use lying to her, at least not about this. He hears her hum pensively.

“I suppose that would explain it, if it were true.” She interrupts herself with a yawn, her eyes screwing shut as she stretches halfway out the window. Snufkin considers whether or not he should move close enough to catch her; as irritated as he might be, watching his half-sister plunge from a second story window isn’t exactly how he’d prefer to start the year.

“But I don’t believe you,” she continues. Her voice takes on a proud edge as she begins cracking the knuckles on one hand one by one. Snufkin grimaces at the sound, so she does the same to the other. “Because if it weren’t spring, then you wouldn’t be here. You’re just trying to trick me by saying it isn’t, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m telling the truth, Little My.” (Though in this moment, he wishes even more that he weren’t.) His stomach gives a roll like the grim waves of an oncoming storm. “Spring...is still about three or four days away.”

A moment passes. Snufkin suddenly feels very grateful for the way his hat keeps them from making eye contact.

“Have you been here long?”

“No, I’ve only just sat down.” Little My huffs through her nose, and Snufkin allows himself to take a little joy in having annoyed her.

“I meant the _valley,_ ” she says, having the nerve to sound exasperated. “Did you leave at all?”

“Of course I did, I haven’t gone crazy.” (He doesn’t feel as certain saying that as he normally would, but she doesn’t need to know that.) “I returned this morning. I haven’t even been here an hour.” Little My folds her arms on the windowsill and rests her head. The tip of her hair points to the distance as she tilts her head in thought, past the hills that act as the valley’s gate to the sea.

Snufkin thinks of the frigid ocean and wonders if an early visit to the beach would do him any good. He pictures himself standing on the rocks and watching pieces of ice float up to the shore, carried down the coast from further north or dropped from the peaks of the Lonely Mountains. It’s a pleasant thought, much like his mouth-organ idea from earlier (though far more considerate). The spray of the sea on his face has always been a comforting memory, even from times long before he met Moomintroll.

Oh. Moomintroll. He’s thinking of him again.

Before Snufkin can do anything to stop it, his best friend is drawn into his picture of himself on the beach, the image equal parts a dream and a memory as they sit side-by-side on the rocks as they’ve done a thousand times. Moomintroll is a little sleepy (because Snufkin has awoken him earlier than he’s used to, of course) and is just a few inches shy of leaning completely on Snufkin’s shoulder. He radiates with the heat expected of someone who has been under a blanket for quite some time, and Snufkin can almost feel the wind whistle through the space between their almost-touching paws. It’s funny –– Snufkin has never considered himself much of a daydreamer, but he’s gotten rather good at imagining things recently.

Snufkin finds himself thinking on the gap between their hands when Moomintroll turns to him suddenly, speaking with Little My’s voice:

“It’s not like you to come back so early.”

Snufkin is ripped from his thoughts, and all the warmth of his brief fantasy is abruptly smothered like dirt scattered over a crackling fire. His beach scene –– and Moomintroll -- disappear into smoke, and he is back on the porch with a stomach ache and a nosy sister leering at him. He sighs and tells himself that it’s probably for the best. He was starting to have far too many feelings anyways. A Snufkin’s life is supposed to be simple, and that meant there was only room for the smallest, most uncomplicated of thoughts.

Though, he supposes there’s nothing very complicated about holding paws. Not to him, at least –– _Moomintroll_ would probably have a hundred emotions that would complicate it, because that’s simply how Moomintroll is and he cannot help it any more than Snufkin can help that he wouldn’t give such an action a second thought (should it happen naturally, of course, as things should). And Snufkin will not blame him for not being simple because that is _not_ what very best friends do, but he certainly won’t entertain the idea of holding Moomintroll’s paw in his own any longer than he absolutely must.

Oh...had Little My been saying something to him?

“Oi! Thistle-brains, are you even listening to me?” It appears that she had, and still is if her tone is anything to go by. Snufkin looks up at her from underneath the brim of his hat –– she’s frowning. “What’s gotten into you, are you hurt or something?”

He doesn't know how to answer her. There’s something accusatory in her voice that gives the strange sensation permission to intrude into Snufkin’s lungs, threatening to take his breath away entirely if he doesn’t answer her this very second. He can feel his heartbeat reverbing through his head like a clapper striking the walls of a bell. He doesn’t understand why he feels this way at all; it’s got to be some sort of illness, but it surely doesn’t feel like one he’s ever heard of before.

But wait — Little My doesn’t need to know any of that. Maybe that’s just the answer he needs.

“I’m sick.” The lie comes out smoothly, like honey off a hot spoon into one of Moominmamma’s steaming mugs of tea. The relief that instantly floods through him is almost as comforting as the memory of cradling one in his hands. He knows the statement won’t placate Little My for long at all, but the moment it leaves his lips it feels closer to the truth of why he’s returned than anything he came up with on the trip back. The tiny Mymble blinks at him, clearly taken aback.

“You get sick?”

“Of course I do. I’ve had a cold for the past day and a half.” Snufkin punctuates his statement with an exaggerated wipe of his nose. “Could be a fever, too.” Little My narrows her eyes at him.

“You can’t have a cold –– you don’t _have_ anything. That’s what makes you think you’re so much better than everyone else.” Snufkin frowns.

“Betters and bests are a terrible way to look at the world. I prefer to just be Snufkin, thank you very much.”

“That sort of thing is exactly what I mean!” Little My insists with a roll of her eyes.

As Snufkin pulls his hat back over his eyes, he can feel her weighted gaze on him in an overbearingly _present_ way that makes his hair stand on end. The feeling persists for a moment before lifting with a soft click as Little My’s window is pulled shut. The sound sends a tiny ripple of guilt sinking through him, the unpleasant little sentiment blooming like ink in water. He usually got along with her much better than this.

Perhaps he hadn’t lied after all — maybe he really _was_ coming down with something. Something that rudely robs him of his appetite and leaves him dizzy in midday. Like a fever.

Something that leaves him alone most of the time, but crawls up his throat if he’s looked at for too long by the demanding eyes of an owl or a creep or a sister. Like a fear.

Something that makes his stomach tumble the way he and Moomintroll do down the valley hills when the sun warms the grass just right. He remembers the dragonflies they’d disturb with all their rolling about, displaced and confused but finding somewhere new to land all the same. Like...well, how he feels right now.

Goodness, couldn’t _anything_ do him a favor and make some sense?!

Little My steps onto the porch with a swing of the door, and at least it makes sense for him to roll out of the way before he’s struck in the head. He does, though his hat drifts off his head in the process. Little My takes the opportunity to take a closer look at him, standing on his rucksack for no real reason other than because it pleases her to be taller than him.

“Well…” she says after a terribly uncomfortable moment, “I suppose you look terrible enough to be sick.”

“Goody, and here I was worried I wouldn’t look the part.” Snufkin retorts flatly, his eyes darting down to his tunic. Perhaps it _is_ getting a bit riper than he likes — he hadn’t been able to gather the energy to hunt down a spring to bathe in for quite some time.

“It’s all in the eyes. Yours are all sunken, like a dead fish.” She puffs her cheeks and makes a relatively fishy face, waving her hands at her sides to resemble fins. Snufkin coughs out a short laugh.

“You look like a bloated Hattifattener.”

“And _you_ look like you’ve been feeling rather sorry for yourself,” Little My says with authority, as she says most things.

“Pff!” Snufkin responds with a wave of his paw, “I don’t get sorry for myself. I’ve got no reason to be.”

Little My ignores him and continues on: “Fortunately for you, I know just the thing to put an end to all your troubles.”

“Do you now?” Snufkin says, unconvinced. He remembers that he’s supposed to be sick and gives a loud sniff. It works in his favor — he draws in too much air and ends up coughing into his scarf. Little My pulls another face, this one far more disgusted with him.

“Yes. Now are you going to sit here and freeze your tail to the floorboards or are you going to follow me?”

“Well, that depends,” he answers, drawing his hat back into his lap and brushing some snow off its brim. “Where are you taking me?” Snufkin would quite like to be led towards a nice bowl of soup, or perhaps a secret store of biscuits she’s squirreled away in a log for the winter.

Little My shrugs, which is never a good sign. “I figured we could walk to the beach. I hear there’s a ghost that appears there this time of year.”

“A ghost?” Snufkin seems annoyed but admittedly intrigued. “What does that have anything to do with me being-”

The vagabond interrupts himself with a loud sneeze that surprises even him. The icicles shake with the noise. The weakest one snaps and breaks against the wooden deck with a sound like spoons against glass — as if the season itself were waiting on his announcement. Snufkin sniffles again before finishing his sentence.

“-sick.” Little My hops down from his rucksack and disappears inside the house, returning a moment later with a handkerchief in hand. Snufkin thanks her and blows his nose, resolving to wash the small scrap of fabric with the rest of his clothes later.

“Apparently she knows a lot about feelings of all kinds, but she’s especially good with bad ones.” Snufkin rolls his eyes.

“There’s no ghost at the beach, Little My, and certainly not one that knows any better about me than I do.” Little My stomps her foot. Another icicle wobbles precariously.

“There is so! Moomintroll told me himself!” She crosses her arms defiantly. “I’ll be sure to tell him when he wakes up that you think he’s a liar.” Snufkin huffs and fights the urge to look up at the familiar dark window just a few feet above them.

“I can tell him myself,” he grumbles.

“Well then, now you _have_ to come with me. You wouldn’t want to pick a fight with your best friend over something you hadn’t seen for yourself, now.” She hops down the stairs and begins to tread through the snow in the direction of the sea.

“Then you’d have nothing to argue about,” she continues, quieter with the distance between them. “And where’s the fun in that?”

Snufkin shakes his head. Of all things, this had to be what he’d expected the least. He stands, and his head feels heavier than usual as he looks over his small collection of things. Picking up his fishing pole, he roots around in the rucksack for his pipe and the last of his winter bait.

 _Well,_ he reasons with himself, as he fills his pipe, _if nothing else, I’ll be able to get some fishing done._ The thought makes his stomach growl again, and though he bubbles with nerves, the strange sensation is surprisingly quiet. Huh. How funny.

Shouldering his pole, Snufkin pockets the rest and sets off behind Little My, erasing her small footprints with his own. He lets her voice fade into the wind as she calls out to him, yelling something or other along the lines of “keep up”.

“I know the way to the beach, you know,” he calls back. The cold air slams unexpectedly into the back of his throat and he coughs.

“I don’t know what you get up to when you’re gone, for all I know you could forget every year!” Snufkin huffs and fumbles in his pocket for a match. The heat of the little flame is more than welcome on his fingertips as he raises his pipe to his mouth.

Warm smoke fills his chest as his mind drifts back to his earlier fantasy of sitting on the rocks. As if he could ever forget the way back to the ocean — it’s moments like this that serve to remind him that while he likes almost everyone in Moominvalley well enough, Moomintroll really is the only one to know him well.

Exhaling smoke into the breeze, he questions if the same can be said for him by Moomintroll. He does have an awful lot of friends, but Snufkin seems to be the one he trusts with the most secrets, like when he finds something particularly interesting or wants to begin a new project. Snufkin wonders if he would wish for that closeness with anyone else.

Little My begins to leave zig-zagged footprints in the snow (because she can, of course) and as he takes care to follow them, he decides that, as usual, things are fine as they are. And yes, this year might be off to a...different start, but life can be funny that way. He just needs to get back to feeling like himself, preferably before spring comes properly.

Still, he can’t help but feel that he’s forgotten something —it’s an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling, as he prides himself on keeping too little to forget in the first place. Rummaging around in his tunic pockets, he takes note of what he has: a spare match or two, his tin of winter bait, and- _ouch!_ He simply _must_ be better about storing his spare fish hooks.

But regardless, he concludes, that has to be all he needs for today’s unexpected day trip. Unless...

He fills his lungs with another plume of flowery smoke and hopes it will be enough to choke the single butterfly in his stomach trying to get him to glance back at Moomintroll’s dark bedroom window. There was no reason to wake the troll up _now—_ he’d feel awful if Moomin ended up greeting the spring with more crankiness than usual because of a simple (stupid, even, since it wasn’t even his idea) beach day.

Besides, he’s never had a desire to look back before after setting off somewhere, and Snufkin finds the fact that he’s stopping his path now to do so very irritating indeed.

Yes, he’s going to turn right around and walk the right way towards the beach, spend a few moments looking for something that doesn’t exist while waiting for the sun to rise, and then he would fish for breakfast and make a proper stew for them both and only rib his sister lightly about the fact that he’s always right. Yes, that’s exactly what he’ll do. He’s rather glad he’s gotten good at daydreaming.

Before he does any of these things, however, while he’s still staring at the window, he brings his paws together to hold each other, lacing them the way he knows Moomintroll likes to do.

**Author's Note:**

> so this surprised me and ended up feeling more natural as a chapter fic? so why not? let's draw out this already super long planned series even further!! :'D (also just a heads up, i'm not super sold on this title yet, so keep an eye out/bookmark it just in case it changes!)
> 
> thanks for reading and come say hi on twitter if you want! @ariohsix
> 
> Lyrics at top belong to Time Spent Walking Through Memories by Nell (give it a listen, it's absolutely gorgeous and really captures the spirit I'm going for in this fic!)


End file.
